


Mala suledin nadas

by viveriveniversumvivusvici55



Series: Dormouse [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bonding about the Chantry fucking us over, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Formerly Tranquil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Gen, Human and Dalish relations, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viveriveniversumvivusvici55/pseuds/viveriveniversumvivusvici55
Summary: Keeper Hawen is suspicious of humans as a whole. He keeps his clan safe, and their mages safer. So when the human mage shows up with the brand on her forehead, he is understandably concerned.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Blackwall (hinted)
Series: Dormouse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545286
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Mala suledin nadas

**Author's Note:**

> The title is Elven for “Now you must endure.” It felt fitting. 
> 
> And the Dalish term for Tranquility is completely homebrewed - Banal’Theneras (Never dreaming).

“Keeper! The rift up the river has been closed!” 

Hawen looks up from his work on the aravel with surprise, looking at the scout. “Closed, you say?”

“Yes. I saw four people fighting the demons and poured from it, and one raised their hand to it,” she replies. Her eyes are wide with excitement, although he recognizes the tempering edge of “Green light poured from it and the rift disappeared, like it was never there!”

Ah. He’d heard stories of this – a Chantry group going around closing the rifts torn in the Veil. His expression creases into a frown. “Did you get a good look at them?”

“No, Keeper. I believe one was a dwarf, one an elf, and the other two humans.”

“Keep an eye out. They will probably come our way.”

Sure enough, he sees someone coming down the river. They are bloody, and the human at the front is limping, leaning on a staff for support. A mage. It is unclear if that changes things. He rises from his work on the aravel to watch them come forward. As they come closer, he takes in more detail. The woman at the front is wrapped in well-made armour, blue and copper, the shoulder plating scaled like a dragon. Her staff radiates ice from its end, and she leans on it heavily with each step. They had taken care of the demons, but not without significant damage. That said something about the strength of the Inquisitor.  


Then he sees it. Now that the human woman is close, he can see, bright red stamped across her forehead…is a Chantry sun.

_ Fenhedis, she’s one of the Banal'Theranas. _ The Tranquil. Or…perhaps not. Her expression is pained, more open than he has heard the Tranquil are, and magic crackles around her fingers. Something isn’t right. His hackles rise in anticipation as her sharp eyes scan the camp until they land on him, and she makes her way over to him, stopping a respectable distance away.

“Greetings,” he says carefully.

“Andaran atish’an, hahren,” she replies, the rhythm of the words not quite right but closer than any human he’s ever heard try. There is emotion in her voice – perhaps the brand is simply a scar – but that does not make him feel better. More the opposite, in fact.  


“These are not good times to come unbidden before the People,” he tells her firmly. “Especially here, where we remember the destruction of our home at the hands of humans. My patience is thin with all that has befallen us. Perhaps, you should be on your way.”

He looks down his nose at her, putting emphasis on the last sentence.  _ Leave, human. Go.  _

“I met one of your hunters,” she says softly. “Olafin. He is continuing to look for a safe route.”

He blinks in surprise. “He trusted you to pass the message on? That speaks well of you.” But one good turn will not gain his trust yet. 

She nods, leaning a bit more on her staff for support. But instead of asking for help or medicine, which he has come to expect from injured humans that stand before him, she asks instead, “What has befallen your clan?”

There is too much bursting in his chest, anger stirred up by the war moving through and the bloody history of this place, to give a calm answer. He focuses on the war in his responses. “The war hinders our progress through the Dirth. The armies cause rockslides, they dig ditches that trip the halla and destroy the aravels. They make passage impossible. And precisely when we need him most, my First goes against my wishes and mounts an expedition to the Emerald Graves. And now, I’ve learned that the grounds of Var Bellanaris are infested with angry spirits from the Beyond.”

And that is the worst part. The dead, of all of the People, should be able to be at peace. This is too much.

“I could remove them,” she replies, voice steady and almost blank. It is the most Tranquil-like that she has sounded, but not quite. If he listens for it, he can hear a touch of kindness in her voice. He can’t tell if she means it or if she is acting like he’s doing her a favour.

This feels too good to be true. He eyes her warily. “My clan and I would be grateful. Be mindful of the resting places of our dead. Var Bellanaris is sacred ground.”

The woman nods, and shifts. “Thank you. We will do what we can.”

“Although we might rest first,” the elf in her group states. “You cannot run on willpower alone, Clarice, no matter how much you try.”

The woman bristles a little but nods. “Right."  


They don’t make camp with the clan, thank the Creators, the tension might kill him otherwise, but they do find a spot nearby. They set up in the curve of the rock face, opposite the halla to give them space, and the Inquisitor, for the moment, steps out of most of her armour to tend to her wounds. She's thin, with some meat on her bones under the loose clothing, but still frail. In the meantime, Hawen keeps an eye on her out of the corner of his eye as they rest and interact with the clan. Bandaged and without armour or weapons, magic slowly working on her wounds, the Inquisitor looks around the camp, chats quietly with anyone that speaks to her. The rest of the clan is uneasy with her, as they are with all shemlen, but the Inquisitor has pulled a headband around her forehead to hide the brand and that helps. As does her subtle compassion, from what he can hear.  


When she hears of the supplies they are low on, she sets down her bag on the ground and starts tearing through it. The dwarf behind her chuckles. “Your compulsion to pick up everything not nailed down finally has a purpose, Mouse.”

She raises an eyebrow at the dwarf and keeps looking through the bag. With one visit, she refills almost everything they need – apart from the great bear pelts. The herbs and leather are all in good condition, and Nissa won’t stop thanking her. 

She chats with Ithrien about the halla, giving them space when they get skittish, and recognizes the story of the hanal’ghilan. She says she will keep an eye out when they go towards Var Bellanaris . She is respectful, as humans go, but respect and good do not always go hand in hand.   


He still watches this…Mouse Inquisitor Clarice. Even the fragile are dangerous, if pushed, and he has had his trust broken enough times to never let down his guard.

* * *

“Keeper! The hanal’ghilan!”

Hawen turns in surprise to see the golden halla trotting towards their herd. She sniffs the other halla, making herself known to them. It warms Hawen’s heart to say the least. Ithiren looks overjoyed.

“I think the human was helping herd her this way,” Ithiren says in surprise.

It…makes a perverse kind of sense. Halla don’t like the shemlen, so running away from the human chasing her could easily bring her to the clan. He had heard sounds of fighting in the distance, though.

The Inquisitor returns, less bloody than before, but still a mess. She leans against the rocks, still keeping a respectful distance between herself and the halla. There is a slight smile on her face as she watches the halla graze, a slightly affectionate look on her face.  


Hawen idly notices that one of the Inquisitor’s companions is watching her especially close. The human man, most of his face hidden by a beard, watches her as she chats with the clan. His eyes are soft, though. Hawen knows the look of a man in love when he sees one. He pities the man – loving one of the Banal’Theneras, even a cured one, must be a challenge. He doesn't acknowledge it, of course, but he makes a mental note as he slowly warms to this small human and her endless compassion. Her group rests for a moment, gathering themselves from fighting yet more spirits, and then she sets off to find Valorin.   


It surprises him that a human so damaged can find a heart in her. Or perhaps it is empathy to those also ruined by the Chantry.

She returns some time later, and he eavesdrops on her quiet interaction with Emalien.

"I'm sorry, but I found your brother," Clarice says, voice full of empathy. Hawen's heart aches - he'd expected such when Valorin didn't return.

"What...what do you mean 'sorry'? Where is he?" The realization dawns on Emalien and her voice catches. "No. He's not..."

"I found his belongings." Clarice reaches into her bag and hands over a bundle of cloth, a book, a staff.

Emalien chokes, and tears start to drip down her face. "Is this...is this all that is left? Did you learn nothing else?"

"He was brave," Clarice says softly, and while the elf behind her grimaces, the bearded human looks pleased. "He was trying to reclaim a relic of the Dalish."

"I know," Emalien wipes her face, "I knew he was brave and clever. He didn't have to prove himself. The clan loves him. Hawen loves him. I wish he'd understood that."

Hawen sighs softly. Perhaps he hadn't been loud enough with that love.

"Thank you for bringing me the news. It's better than not knowing."

Clarice reaches into her bag again and cups an item in her hands. "I think this is what your brother was looking for. I believe you should have it."

Hawen can't see it, but Emalien's wet breath catches. "Lindiranae's Talisman? It...it exists?"

With that, Hawen's jaw drops. He'd known that Valorin was trying to reclaim something so far lost, but that...and the human _found it and gave it back to them?_

"Her sword, Evanura, was taken by shems," Emalien explains, "but in the story, her talisman was saved and hidden. This will mean so much to our people. Thank you!"

Perhaps his trust would be well-placed in this one.

* * *

He has a chance to corner her while her group is busy discussing the markings found nearby in the Ancient Baths. Hawen stands next to her, towering over her as they look out at the river.

“I must ask, Inquisitor,” the Keeper asks carefully, "about your mark.”

"Which one?" She raises her hand, the faint green magic playing over it, and the other hand reaches up to touch her forehead, covered by the headband.

“The brand," he says just as carefully.  


Her expression shutters a little and she sighs, resigned in a way that he faintly understands. “What do you want to know?”

“You were one of the Banal’Theneras, were you not?”

Her head tilts, puzzling the phrase over, and replies, “The…never dreaming?”

His eyebrows raise. “You speak our language?” That is more than a little surprising.

“No, Keeper. But I have heard some of the songs and their translations. I recognize some pieces.”

That makes more sense. “Yes. That is our word for it.”

“Less kind than Tranquil,” she replies. “It’s a good one. But yes, I was. Being thrown into the Fade fixed it.”

He frowns. “Forcing you to reconnect with it. I understand the logic, although that does not strike me as pleasant.”

The gaze she levels at him is bonechilling. There is pain in her eyes, dark and heavy, and a blank numbness. He has seen it in the eyes of soldiers who have seen too much war, or elves who have run from the alienage after something gone horribly wrong. “No,” she says simply. “It was not.”

He does not want to know any more than that. “You are strong, then, to face such and still stand here.”

“I try. And I had help.” Her eyes fall to the bearded human, talking to one of the hunters, and her expression softens. He smiles a little.  


"We all need our clans, whether blood or made."

"That we do, hahren."

* * *

She asks nothing of him when they pack up to leave, only that it might be okay to pass through again in her travels. Even though he can feel Loranil vibrating in the distance, hoping that she will ask the Keeper if he can join the Inquisition, she asks nothing now. He quietly appreciates that.

“Thank you, Inquisitor. You are kinder than I have known most shem to be, especially those who represent the Chantry.”

“Thank you, Keeper Hawen. Dareth shiral.”

He smiles, however slightly. “Dareth shiral.”

As she jogs away, Keepr Hawen decides that he would not mind her coming through again. Perhaps...perhaps there is a little hope with this new Inquisition.


End file.
